I was about to go and talk to her when someone tapped me on the shoulder. I turned around and saw it was Horacio MacIntosh, an old classmate of mine.
‘I thought that was you, Miguel,’ he said, in his soft baritone. ‘I’m glad to see you here.’ I wish I could have said the same.
‘Mac,’ I said, as he squeezed my hand with the strength of an Olympic gymnast, ‘I thought you were still teaching in Pennsylvania.’
‘I am . . . I am,’ he said, slowly nodding his Patrician head, hair slightly greying at the temples. ‘Actually, I was just awarded the Anderson Chair for New Political Thought. But I just had to fly in for old Pendleton.’
‘Yeah, I read about that in the alumni magazine. I’m glad you’re doing so well,’ I lied. He was the same age as me. Actually, a year younger, and he’d finished his dissertation on Marcuse in record time.
‘And how about you? What are you up to?’ he asked good-naturedly.
‘Me? Well . . . you know, I’m just finishing up a few articles that I have in the works, and I’ve got a good lead on a teaching job. Things are looking up for me.’
‘Good,’ he said, slapping me on the shoulder. ‘I remember when you were temping at that shitty Ministry, and we all gave you such a hard time. Thank God you’re not still there, right?’
‘Yeah,’ I replied. ‘Thank God . . . That would be really pathetic, wouldn’t it? Uh, look, maybe I’ll see you at the wake? I’ve got to meet someone.’
I’d just seen Julieta walking away in the fine mist with the rest of the crowd, so I ran to catch up with her.
‘Hi,’ I said.
‘Hi,’ she replied, looking down. I could tell she’d been crying.
‘Look,’ I mumbled, ‘I didn’t mean what I said. I mean, I was angry, and it wasn’t right of me. And, plus, some really strange shit has been going on lately . . .’
She cut me off and said, ‘I didn’t want to say this to you here. I . . . I’ve packed up some of your stuff and left it in a bag in the hallway. You can’t just come and go as you please, Miguel, like a hotel guest. It’s too tough on me and on Miguelito. I’ve already told him you’re going on an important business trip, so it’ll be easier for you.’
Her words were mechanical, but there was a strain in her voice, and I saw how her upper lip trembled.
‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean . . .’
‘Miguel, don’t you realise, you never mean to do anything you do? And nothing’s ever your fault? Things just happen to you, and then you look around for someone to blame . . . and it’s usually me. I’m not going to be that person any more. When you get your shit together, we can talk, but I don’t want to see you until then.’
She looked at her watch and said, ‘I’ll be at my mother’s until late, so I suggest you go to the apartment now, so we don’t have to see each other.’
Just as she caught a sob in her throat, she turned away and walked down the gravel path. Over her shoulder she said, ‘Miguel, I’m so sorry about Professor Pendleton. I know how much you loved him.’ Then she was lost in a sea of black umbrellas.
I stood there for a few minutes, the rain soaking through my thin overcoat.
It was just then Pendleton’s sister came up and handed me a book, pocked by the drops of rain now coming down harder. The dusk jacket read, Metaphors from the Greek: What the Ancient World Can Tell Us Today. It was the first book he’d written, the one that had catapulted him to fame. She said, ‘Amadeo told me to give this to you in case anything ever happened to him.’
I tried to thank her, and we half-kissed and hugged, not knowing quite what to do.
In the taxicab, I stared at the front cover of the book. There was the success that had eluded me.
I flipped through the book absentmindedly, and then I stopped when I realised what was inside. I ripped off the dust jacket and saw the bright, gold-embossed letters, Lives of the Saints. Good old Pendleton had had one of the books all along! I flipped to Saint Perpetuus and began to read the entry as my cab wended its way through the stop-and-go traffic on the way to my apartment.
Book XIII
(Fourth entry, Lives of the Saints)
One day, I arrived at the doors of the Institute at precisely 8:57 a.m. Feeling pleased with how I’d outwitted an old woman with a walker in the subway that morning, I convinced myself all these thoughts of the Engineer and Ezequiel conspiring against me were really rather absurd. After all, I was a seasoned bureaucrat, and he was just an ingénue. Certainly, the Engineer saw some novelty in the boy, but it would soon wear off.
I thrust my hand out to the metal desk on which the newspaper always lay . . . but it wasn’t there!
A fear gripped my heart. I felt all around the surface . . . but still nothing! I bent down and looked under the desk in the pale light of the gas ring, to see if it had fallen down. On my hands and knees, I reached out my hand but quickly pulled it back when I felt something viscous.
I felt further outside the range of the desk, out of the range of the gas ring. Nothing. Nothing at all. All around me, dark figures began converging on the elevator.
It was now 8:59. The Herd was filling up the elevator, and it would leave without me. I had to get in now, or I’d arrive late. But without the paper?
A shade was just closing the outer grate, when I launched myself inside. We went up and up, my heart racing. As I was the last one in the cage, I had to close the door, ‘shh-click’, ‘shh-clunk’ and open it, ‘shh-click’, ‘shh-clunk’, for everyone on every floor. I can’t express to you what a humiliating experience that was!
Luckily, I arrived inside the door of the Institute at exactly 9:00 a.m. But without the paper!
I stood there, trying to wipe the sticky substance off my hand with my handkerchief, wondering what excuse I’d give the Engineer. I thought of saying, ‘It’s not my fault, you see? The newspaper’s always there. It’s always there. They just didn’t deliver it. They didn’t deliver it. But it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault, it’s not my fault.’
At 9:35 precisely, the Engineer walked through the door, raising his right arm as he always does, to receive the paper. Although I didn’t have the paper, my arm instinctively went up. At the sight of my empty, filthy hand he recoiled, a mixture of surprise and disgust in his eyes.
All I could do was to withdraw the offending palm and to babble to him, ‘Mr Engineer, it’s not there. The paper’s not . . .’ at which precise moment Ezequiel popped his head out of the Engineer’s office and proclaimed, in his excessively-cheery tone, ‘Good Morning, Mr Engineer. I got here a little early this morning to go through the files you asked me for. I saw the paper downstairs, so I thought I’d just put it on your desk.’ As Ezequiel entered the reception area, he said to me, ‘I hope you don’t mind.’
‘That’s quite all right, young man,’ the Engineer said. Then he looked at me directly, still smiling, and said, ‘It’s nice to have a change.’ Then he walked into his office and, as I tried to follow him in, closed the door in my face.
Ezequiel started towards me, a question on his lips. But there was no way I could survive a direct confrontation now. The tears were welling up in my eyes.
I quickly turned away and ran to my desk, thinking ‘Early? Who ever gets to work early? Except for the receptionist, but she’s got to be first to let the rest of us in. That brat’s not fooling anyone, least of all me.’
Ezequiel committed this and a thousand other affronts, slights, and betrayals in the weeks that followed. As a result, everything started slipping from my grasp.
One morning, I was so distracted in the shower, thinking of him, that I masturbated first and lathered my hair second. This threw off my entire rhythm. After towelling myself off with one hand and trying to force down my erection with the other—‘Bad erection, bad!’—I jumped onto the bed and bounced across it, because the back of my legs was still damp. I slid off and twisted my ankle.
I howled like an animal caught in a trap. To bear the pain, I wrapped my
ankle with an old under shirt and tied the laces of my shoe as tightly as I could.
Every movement on my way to work was an agony. But the worst part was the effect it had on my dignity: I was forced to hobble across 9 de Julio, bobbing and weaving through traffic like an amateur. I arrived to work at 9:00 a.m. precisely, but with heavy beads of sweat on my brow. Ezequiel, of course, had arrived before me and had picked up the newspaper again.
For a week, I had to get up twenty minutes earlier to compensate for my limp. I stopped showering. I stopped masturbating altogether. After all, what was the use? I had no other desire but to crush Ezequiel. Not even thinking of the receptionist’s lips could distract me from my rage.
Then, one night, I returned, deflated, to my apartment, the smell of electric heat heavy in my room. I’d left the hotplate on! Only by a miracle the place hadn’t been incinerated. My beautiful place, my inheritance! All my great uncle’s old maps I hadn’t finished cataloguing, all my field journals of the subway.
From that day on, I had to write myself a note and tape it on the door, ‘Did you turn the hotplate off?’ And I taped another one right below it, ‘Did you really turn it off?’
I’d check the hotplate two or three times to make sure, twisting the knob, cupping my hand over it to make sure the little orange light wasn’t lit. Soon, I was spending ten minutes a day on this. Finally, so deeply perturbed by Ezequiel’s machinations was I that I gave up drinking tea in the morning. I GAVE UP EARL GREY! (You have no idea how hard it was just now to write that.)
After that, nothing mattered anymore, except for getting to work on time. But even that became hollow, mechanical.
After work, I’d wander the streets, sometimes crossing against the lights, sometimes defying the solid orange man on 9 de Julio, not caring if some stray Fiat 500 or tiny Peugeot ended my miserable life. I let my research slip. I couldn’t concentrate on anything.
One night, as I returned home, the whole city seemed out of focus. People in the subway looked like goblins and dwarves. Even the subway-ticket salesmen had turned sinister. As I entered my apartment building, I saw my blurry reflection in the elevator mirror, and I realised I still had my reading glasses on!
Disgusted by how far I’d let myself slip, I struck the glasses off my face. I struck myself again and again, in the face, in the stomach. Had I dared think myself a saint? Had I dared ascend to godhood!
I continued hitting myself until my cheeks were flushed, and I was doubled over. But then, slowly, rocked by the rhythm of the elevator, a creeping sense of calm began to overtake me.
What if it took just a little more resolve on my part to overcome my enemy? What if victory was almost in my grasp? As the elevator reached the top floor, I decided the time had come to launch a counterattack against Ezequiel . . .
Book XIV
Every year, I lead the canned food drive at my office.
Now, wait. It’s not what you think. After my previous tirade against pity, don’t believe for a moment I’ve fallen victim to it.
Let me explain . . . I’m sure you’re aware of the subway’s annual canned-food drive. It’s hard to avoid those enormous, cartoon posters pasted everywhere: an awful, hydrocephalic child in a Father Christmas cap with the title, ‘One can = two subway tokens. Give and you will receive.’
Yes . . . it sickens me as well! But like the charlatans pandering in the subway, remember to use other people’s pity as a trampoline to saintliness. Here’s how.
First, consider this: how much does a one-way trip cost on the subway? 50 cents, more or less, depending on inflation. And how much does the cheapest, most disgusting canned food cost . . . say, dried, re-hydrated peas? On sale and close to the expiration date, one can costs about 50 cents.
So, you see what I mean? For a fifty cents can of peas, I get two tokens (or twice as much value in the subway).
Even if I had to pay for the cans myself, it works to my advantage. But each year, collecting donations from my colleagues, most of them show no interest in the tokens due them. So I’ve been able to pocket them!
So, by appearing to support a cause I personally despise, I give peas that no intelligent child would eat! I also look good in front of the Engineer Smaevich, who loves this kind of public relations shit. And, as a special bonus, I get free subway tokens.
And, to top it all off, the canned goods drive this year would play an integral part in my plan to crush that young up-start, Ezequiel.
Thus inspired, I vigorously collected change throughout the office for a week. I was civil in my communications. I think I even smiled once or twice.
Then, in order to ensure my victory, I visited CSAM on the third floor. Hat in hand, I begged the people in the waiting room to have ‘pity for the children’. You have no idea just how giving anal masochists can be!
With this money, I bought a hefty box of peas from the Korean mini-market down the street. The peas—of dubious origin—cost me only forty cents.
When I brought my stack of cans in, I saw Ezequiel’s face drop. He’d heard about our yearly office tradition—although I’d tried to play down its importance—so he’d brought in one kilo of canned beets from home.
As I weighed the cans on the mail balance on the front desk, Mr Engineer Smaevich looked on approvingly. Milling secretaries stopped to see what all the fuss was about. ‘Congratulations,’ the Engineer said to me, and he slapped me on the back. ‘That’s seventeen kilograms of cans for you, plus one from Ezequiel, making eighteen kilos altogether’. He continued, with a wry smile, ‘Ezequiel, you could learn a thing or two from this man.’
How I savoured that moment! How uncomfortable Ezequiel looked, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. His one kilo to my seventeen. What joy!
I was still smiling, my confidence coming back to me, as I dragged the box of cans back to my desk to pack them up and send them to those fucking orphans. Going around and around in my head like a Christmas jingle were the words, ‘eighteen kilos . . . eighteen kilos.’
That was a victory for the ages. The slap on the back I received from the Engineer and his remark to Ezequiel . . . priceless!
Nonetheless, something didn’t feel quite right. What was it? Something about the number troubled me: ‘eighteen . . . eighteen.’
No . . . it couldn’t be! Suddenly, I remembered . . . in Jewish numerology, the number eighteen is equivalent to ‘chai’, the Hebrew word for ‘life’. That’s why Jews tend to give donations in multiples of eighteen!
That one mistake could foil all my dark plans. There’s no way the Universe would permit me to have my revenge on Ezequiel if my tool for doing so—those canned goods—were sending a message of hope and life!
But what could I do? The first thing that occurred to me was to throw the offending kilo of cans in the trash and get my numbers down to a menacing seventeen. (After all, the seven seals, the seven tongues, the seven swords . . . )
But after a few moments’ thought, I ruled that out. With the proliferation of homeless digging through the rubbish these days, those cans would almost certainly fall into needy hands. Thus, I still would have—albeit against my will—given the cans to charity. And the number eighteen would remain intact.
I could flush the peas down the toilet. But there was always a chance it would get plugged and overflow, and I’d be humiliated in front of the whole office . . . I could just imagine Ezequiel standing there, with a plunger in his hand, saying ‘Now, why in the world did you do that?’ Then he’d call out to the front of the office, ‘Oh, Mr Engineer Smaevi-iich . . .’
So, I did the only thing I could. I smuggled one can of peas with me into the toilet, every half hour or so, so as not to raise suspicion. There, in secrecy, I opened it up and swallowed the contents. I made several trips, can after can, until I’d eaten exactly one kilo.
At this point, I was feeling rather nauseous. Those peas really were horrendous! But I was happy to have narrowly escaped the mitzvah of giving. Then, as quietly as possible
, I crushed the cans and hid them in my portfolio and then smuggled them out with me after work.
I’d done my best. But it ended up being a Pyrrhic victory. An hour or so after I got home, I became so wretchedly sick, that I spent most of the night vomiting into a tin pot next to my bed. All that briny water, all those little peas, hard and deadly like shotgun pellets, scraping upwards against my œsophagus.
On the borderline of consciousness, I began to suspect that this was all part of Ezequiel’s plan. Somehow he’d known I’d collected exactly seventeen kilos. By adding his one, he’d ruined everything. Had the Korean shopkeeper talked? Had he followed me? I began to feel feverish.
The red squirrel was on my nightstand now, dressed with Ezequiel’s awful, red bowtie. But instead of talking to me, he was counting out loud in Korean and using an abacus. I wondered how he could move those little, coloured beads with such agility, because the nails on his hands were so very long and sharp.
These thoughts and others mixed in my head, as I vomited one last time all over my sheets and then finally fell asleep.
Book XV
A distant hammering sounded again and again. Eventually, it woke me. At first, I thought it was the chattering of the squirrel, but then I realised it was my alarm clock going off. I ached all over. My sheets were drenched in sweat and caked in vomit.
My mouth tasted of peas, my skin smelled of them. Still nauseous and light-headed, I turned off my clock.
Then I jumped out of bed. (Actually, I painfully slid down to the floor and then crawled on my hands and knees to my clothes.) I was moving so slowly, I knew I didn’t have time to shower. My fingers trembling, it took me five minutes just to button my shirt. I couldn’t find my socks. I was in such a rush, I didn’t even make my bed.
This was all Ezequiel’s fault. All of it!
I staggered out the door and stumbled down the stairs, every step feeling like I was walking through quicksand. Crossing the sidewalk was a blur. I almost lost my balance and had to hold onto the lamppost in front of ‘Pizza Donna’ for support. I continued on, and then straight down the stairs to the subway and through the turnstile.
The St Perpetuus Club of Buenos Aires Page 15
